Through the library window
a man is sitting, motionless.
Through the windshield of his silver Jetta
he is imagining an escape
ladder rungs twisting up and out
swirling a double-helix getaway
from his driver's seat
to some quiet attic
in a heaven of Saturday mornings
and "Thank You" cards on
every windowsill.
He is biting lip
watching the traffic move
like coral reef without him.
A woman (his?) is at the window,
hands him papers and the
silver bracelet from her wrist,
she is speaking to the air around him.
She is upsetting him
with her shoulders, her swan posture,
her chatter, her empty ring finger.
You never learned to lip-read
but you can tell conflict
through sheets of glass,
from miles, cities away.
We never meant to learn that second language.
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